What Goes On
by Wing Pikepaw
Summary: After finding House overdosed and drunk on Christmas Eve, Wilson gets in a car accident on the way home and ends up in physical therapy in the same rehab facility as House, which forces the two to examine their friendship.
1. She Said She Said

**Title:** What Goes On  
**Author:** Wing Pikepaw  
**Rating: **T for language  
**Genre:** Drama  
**Summary:** After finding House overdosed and drunk on Christmas Eve, Wilson gets in a car accident on the way home and ends up in physical therapy in the same facility where House is doing rehab. Trapped together against their wishes, the two are forced to examine their friendship. (AH, set to Beatles music)  
**Author's Note:** Huzzah for first House fics! Be gentle? Incidentally, as the title may or may not indicate depending on your level of musical knowledge, I've decided to set this story to Beatles music, so we'll see how this works out with a combination of genius…

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**Prologue**

**She Said She Said**

'she said, i know what it's like to be dead, i know what it is to be sad'

_Strange that I hate myself but I can't hate House._

_The snow is coming down heavy, a real blizzard, blurring the traffic lights to blobs of colour, and all I can see is him lying on the floor in a pool of his own vomit. Overdosed. Disgusting. My best friend the drug addict lying there, mostly a drug addict, still my best friend, though I didn't realise it at the time. And now…_

_The road is slippery – I can feel the tires trying to bite the pavement and failing, but I squint and I can see the sidewalk so it's okay but it's not because I left him there. His only friend left him there on Christmas. The only friend who had asked for his company and was scoffed at hours before…and I can still forgive him…why can I do that?_

'i said, who put all these things in your head? things that make me feel like I'm mad…'

_Your Honour, he needs the pills, he's miserable, he's messed up, he's an addict, he's a good doctor, he's my best friend, please don't send him to jail, I'll go instead…_

_I have a way out. My car. My money. My home. My job. Everything except one screwy friend who I can't live without, and now I don't know what to do. _You can have a life, Dr. Wilson. He's taking you down with him. _Well, maybe I'm letting him, Detective Tritter. Maybe I don't care, because he can do what he likes and he knows he'll always have me, but what happens when he doesn't? I can't decide I can't decide – and I'm crying, God, so fucking stupid…_

'i said, even if you know what you know, i know that I'm ready to leave'

_The blob of colour at the next intersection is hard to find through tears and snow. Christmas lights everywhere. Christmas lights. But you're Jewish. Want to come to a Hanukah party? People rather than pills. Green light? Red light? Yellow light? White light? Blue light? Purple light? Headlights? _

_Accelerator. Fuck traffic direction. Fuck House. And then the problem's solved anyways, because the lights suddenly go out._

'and you're making me feel like i've never been born'

(she said she said  
lennon/mccartney  
revolver  
1965)


	2. Nowhere Man

**Chapter 1**

**Nowhere Man**

'_doesn't have a point of view, knows not where he's going to – isn't he a bit like you and me?'_

"What are you doing here?"

House glanced back to see Cuddy standing at the end of the hallway, an armful of paperwork tucked absently under one arm as she stared at him. He wondered idly what he must look like to her now, red-eyed, unshaven, and looking generally hung-over and miserable. There was a special word for this feeling – _shitty_ – and if the question asked of him had been how he was doing, that would have been the ready-made answer, but Cuddy wanted to know why he was here. Why, perhaps, he was wandering around looking like one of the more unstable patients who had escaped his room, or why he wasn't yet in jail. Or, maybe, why he was off his pills again, this time by choice, but she couldn't know that just yet.

"I took Tritter's offer," he said shortly. Any banter, any sarcasm, was now too painful to even think about, much less manage beyond, "I'm cleaning out some stuff before I take my vacation."

She looked him up and down, an odd expression of surprise on her face. "Oh…I see." No sarcasm from her either. She was either glad to see him go or worried about him, and for once House found himself hoping that it was the latter just because he was tired of people being against him. "Do you need help?"

"No," the lean diagnostician replied in a clipped tone that took her aback somewhat until he added quietly, "I've got my kids if I need it."

She nodded briskly and turned to go, but seeing her turned back made his leg ache with bitter guilt, and he shuffled a pace after her, calling her name with a mixture of embarrassment and suppressed urgency. "Cuddy?"

"Yeah?"

"Where's Wilson?" He would have shifted his weight had it not been excruciatingly painful just to relieve the tension. "I…ah…I want to talk to him."

She frowned for a moment, tilting her head as if surprised he didn't know something. His expectant look made her eyes widen, a change that prodded warningly at his gut, and when her mouth opened wordlessly, his stomach actually lurched as he realised that something was terribly wrong. "What?" House demanded, taking another step towards her but going no further – he couldn't afford himself the movement.

"You…you don't know?" she faltered, her eyes welling up with tears. This, if nothing else, told House that he was fucked, and he stared at her with gathering horror as she whispered, "My God, I thought someone told you…oh God, Greg…he was in a car crash. Last night. He's in the ICU right now – he's got two broken legs, maybe a collapsed lung, broken ribs, needs a blood transfusion…"

House's brain felt numb, something that surprised him – he was quite positive that the pills and alcohol from last night were well out of his system by now – and wondered distantly if this was some sort of side effect as he swayed slightly, his vision blurring momentarily in a rush of haziness before clearing just as quickly. "Wilson's…hurt?" he heard himself repeating, unsure if it was in fact him moving his own mouth. Cuddy nodded, her eyes over-bright as she conceded in a voice that was strangely hoarse, "I'm sorry."

"Can I see him?" he asked, still dazed. She hesitated.

"I don't…he's not supposed to have visitors yet…"

"Well, I'm his fucking best friend, aren't I," he snapped suddenly, feeling the momentarily dormant guilt flare up within him and slash ruthlessly at his leg in time with his temper. It hurt twice as much because he knew that he was lying – how could Wilson possibly think of him as such after walking out on him last night? – and yet he had to see him. Had to. "I don't give a damn about visiting hours, I'm a doctor, aren't I?"

"Not for the next two months, you're not," Cuddy snapped in retaliation, catching on to his edginess with a speed that suggested hidden tension of her own. However, her eyes said differently than her words, and after a moment she sighed and slumped. "I suppose you can see him. You know where the ICU is."

"I'm in too much pain to get there," he snarled, but under his breath – there wasn't a lot she could do about that unless she offered to carry him. Gritting his teeth in a way that made his aching head zing with tiny bolts of agony, he drew his dark coat closer about him and stumped back down the empty hallway away from her, the flickers of his own reflections swimming erratically in the corners of his vision with every heavy step.

The Intensive Care Unit was a floor down and a hallway across, a lifetime's journey that was shortened only by the invention of elevators, which saved House from having to hop down a set of stairs, something that probably wouldn't have gone over well considering that he was still having problems with coordination. At least the puking had stopped – although, he reminded himself, when that was considered a mild improvement, things weren't good at all.

He wasn't really _thinking _about the pain, though, more so constantly acknowledging and receiving it, because his mind was full of the few vague images he had of last night that involved Wilson. He couldn't remember if the oncologist had said anything when he had mysteriously appeared in his line of blurred vision after collapsing on the floor (something he also couldn't remember, merely infer that had happened), but knowing Wilson as he did, he could guess that nothing had needed to be said. Wilson had seen him in that state – and it had been a bad one, that was for sure, although he was still hazy on the details – and left in disgust. He would've checked his vitals first, though. Wilson had never been able to manage a dramatic exit without letting his infernal good-guy conscience get in the way - he wouldn't have left without making sure that he was all right.

Would he?

…and then what had happened? The accident? Had he been so upset that he hadn't thought about where he was going? Or had he been all right with leaving House on the floor and merely failed to avoid a drunk driver barrelling through a red light? Who had been at fault, not so much in the collision but in the thoughts turning through Wilson's mind in the moments leading up to it?

"House?"

Cameron. He turned around and saw her standing in the threshold of the closed door he had just passed without noticing, her hair slightly askew and her eyes red-rimmed in a way that both made him worry about Wilson and wonder about Cuddy's self control. When their eyes met, she took a slight step forward as if moving to hug him, but then she blinked as if remembering exactly which of her male colleagues this was and the brief connection was broken. "Thank God you got here," she mumbled, dropping her eyes abruptly to the floor. "He thinks he's going to jail – he won't listen to me."

"Who – _Wilson?_"

She sighed, brushing a strand of loose hair behind one ear in a short, quick movement. "Yes. I've been helping out with him, but he keeps talking about you. You and Detective Tritter, but I think it's you he wants to talk to. He's got severe concussion and he can't think straight, can barely talk anyway, and-"

"Yeah, all right, he's not my case, I don't need the details," House said gruffly, slightly off-put by her dishevelled appearance and sudden tendency to ramble. "Is he in there?"

Cameron nodded dazedly, closing her eyes for a moment in a way that her superior recognised as a gesture she used for collecting herself in times of great stress. "But we've put him on a respirator, so he can't talk."

"I didn't say anything about talking, did I?" He pushed past her, shoving the door open with his cane.

As a doctor used to coming in to a room such as this to check on one of his patients, the idea of finding an acquaintance or friend on the other side of the door was disorienting, but House, who was preparing himself for a shock, found that the sensation less dramatic than he had expected simply because he could see very little that identified Wilson as Wilson. Half of his face was obscured by the respirator, while one half of the half left uncovered was a raw purple mass of bruises and scrapes – the only bit that looked more or less normal was around his left eye, which was closed but clearly his. His two broken legs made misshapen lumps under the blankets covering the rest of his prone form, creating a mountain range formed by bumps in the plaster and the slight wrinkles in the oft-used hospital sheet.

The situation was instantly awkward. Bedside vigils were made for sitting in the background and making snide remarks from time to time, not for taking seriously – it went against every law of nature as House knew them. Still, Cameron had said Wilson had wanted to talk to him, and as pointless as that was now…well…

He approached the semi-conscious oncologist hesitantly, still uncertain as to his mood or current feelings towards him. He could rationalise what had happened enough so that the event was moderately insignificant, but he knew Wilson hated when he did that, so he decided to be pessimistic and assume that he was in the doghouse in his friend's books. His friend…could he even use that term anymore? Was it allowed?

"House is here, Wilson," Cameron said suddenly – she had still been standing behind him, and now she came around on Wilson's other side. "He wanted to see you."

_Wanted_ to...perhaps not the best choice of verb. Still, Wilson's unscathed eye slowly flickered open halfway, darkly unfocused as it turned lazily around the room and finally settled on Cameron, who shot House a prompting look as she got up to leave them alone, a movement he found simultaneously alarming and relieving. He cleared his throat uncomfortably and muttered a low 'Hey'.

Wilson turned his head a fraction towards his voice, tilting his head back slightly to see him in better light. His eye widened a fraction at the sight of him, but he could say nothing. He left that to House.

"I guess you win," the diagnostician said after a moment, shrugging. "I'm taking that asshole's offer."

Wilson tried to say something, but his words were lost behind the plastic of the respirator. For a moment, House considered removing it, but was abruptly bombarded by the uncomfortable sensation of seeing someone else's patient and decided against it. "And, uh, you don't have to testify," he added, guessing that Wilson would want to hear this.

The oncologist stared at him unblinkingly. House looked back, unable to break off the gaze as he wondered what Wilson was thinking. He had a few guesses, but all of them were unfounded as he had no idea what to expect now. His friend had put up with so much from him – could he have reached a limit? _You hit Chase, you nearly maimed a little girl…_it's all your fault, Greg, once again. _But it's never my fault._

He knew Wilson wanted an apology. That was all James ever wanted. But he also knew that he was incapable of giving one, perhaps at the moment or perhaps for longer, and so he mumbled a good-bye and left, his leg aching worse than ever as he joined Cameron outside the door. She looked up as he closed the door behind him, surprised.

"I thought you'd be in longer," she said, tilting her head questioningly.

"I don't much care for one-sided conversation," he retorted, feeling suddenly snappish. Every moment felt forcedly casual, something, he realised with irritation, Cameron was picking up on by the slight knitting of her eyebrows and the tiny crease that appeared in the corner of her narrowed left eye. House knew that she was going to ask something along the lines of 'What happened?' in reference to last night or something equally philosophical and sensitive and more fucking personal that he could bear, so he limped away before she could articulate her thoughts, the movement effectively cutting her off and stopping her from following. He wanted no one to follow him at the moment, nor did he want help in the solitary task of cleaning out his office. Guilt was easier ignored alone.

'_he's as blind as he can be, just sees what he wants to see – nowhere man, can you see me at all?'_

It was ten o'clock the next morning when Wilson was finally cleared for surgery. He had surprisingly few connections besides his parents who were at least partially knowledgeable of his medical records, and even they had been hazy about his history of respiratory illnesses. Had it been any other patient, it would have annoyed her, but because it was a co-worker and especially because it was Wilson, it actually worried her. Cuddy was extremely wary of that which worried her.

She had scheduled the operation that would hopefully repair his collapsed lung for noon, and sometime in between then she would have to brief him about the procedure, a needless necessity required by state law even for doctors. This was not high on her to-do list – pre-op stuff rarely was, and this case was even worse – so she looked for other things to do to waste the time.

The short, dark-haired woman's gait was precise and quick as she hurried out of her office to the cafeteria, planning on grabbing some lunch before she did something useless like check on Oncology to see how they were managing minus a doctor or poke her head in to see how today's batch of MRIs was coming. She wasn't particularly hungry, but her father had been a POW during Vietnam and had drilled the fact that any food you could get was a gift into his children's brains. You eat today, you stay standing tomorrow.

Chase was sitting alone at the table usually occupied by House and Wilson, a strange, almost hypocritical change that made Cuddy blink twice at the irony of it all. She got a plate of food and joined him anyway, making him glance up from the book he was reading propped up against the edge of his tray.

"Anything good?" she inquired, nodding to the thick tome. He shrugged and pulled it up to reveal the cover – _Lupus Redefined._

"Foreman bought it," he explained, his soft Australian accent barely registering to her accustomed ear. "House used the other one to hide Secret Stash Number Two, and we always misdiagnose this one, so…"

"Secret Stash Number Three, actually," Cuddy corrected him wearily. "Yes, I know. I suppose I have to reimburse you?"

He shrugged, blue eyes flicking back to the pages for a moment. "Not my money. Talk to Foreman."

Sighing, she let her eyes drop back to her salad, prodding it the leaves listlessly. "This sucks," she remarked, twirling her fork idly through the lettuce and taking a reluctant bite of spaghetti. "We're two doctors down, one shouldn't even be leaving, they both might be going to jail…"

"Cameron said House's deal with Tritter involved Wilson not having to testify. He won't have to go," Chase said sharply, looking up from the pages once more as he added darkly, "Something to do with a bottle of pills stolen from a dead man."

"I know, I know, I'm exaggerating," Cuddy growled softly, eyeing her young colleague's still-bruised jaw where House had punched him several days ago. It felt like it had been longer, but the distinctive purple of the injury said otherwise. "Does that hurt?" she asked tentatively, tapping her own jawbone. He shrugged and went back to his book. Not in the mood for talk, it seemed.

Cuddy finished her lunch quickly and headed off for the ICU, Chase's quietly black mood having put her off her quest for timewasters. Wilson was ready for surgery, she knew, and, knowing the hospital procedures, he would be expecting her, as was indicated by his lack of movement when she knocked and entered his room. This also could have been attributed to the fact that he couldn't really move much anyway, but she decided to be optimistic and acted as if he had been waiting for her.

"Sorry I'm late," she said, meeting his half-opened eyes apologetically as she pulled up the spare chair beside his bed. "Had to get something to eat. Chase says hello."

Wilson could not, of course, answer, but he blinked once in acknowledgement. She sighed and made the necessary explanation, skipping over some of the nastier details of how they were going to support his collapsed lung and realign three of his ribs, and then added the bit about therapy that patients were always so anxious to here about, their hands usually clutching at their blankets as they stared wide-eyed at her. Not Wilson – his eyes were closed, his ragged breathing more or less calm, and his hands still lying unclenched at his sides. When Cuddy had finished, she hesitated before prompting him quietly, "Do you have any questions?"

He nodded once, and she carefully removed the respirator, keeping it in hand in case he became short of breath. Wilson inhaled shakily, trying to get a decent mouthful of air and hold onto it but unable to take in a satisfactory amount, which seemed to unsettle him by the way he raised a hand with difficulty to nervously rub at his throat. He took another deep breath, rasping on the exhale, "How long….will…therapy take?"

She fiddled nervously with the edge of the sheet hanging down the side of his bed, automatically replacing the respirator with her other hand to let him catch his breath. "Your lung and ribs should make a pretty fast recovery – you know Dr. Yaxley, he's good. Your breathing should almost back to normal in a week, and your ribs will be healed in a month since they're just fractured." She glanced over at him, watching his uninjured brown eye, which was staring listlessly at the door. "But your legs will take longer."

He weakly gestured for her to take the respirator away. "How…long?"

Cuddy wanted to say what she always did when faced with such questions – _well, I'm afraid it's impossible to say for sure_ – but Wilson was good at seeing through lies, possibly why House knew not to try and run circles around him as he delighted in doing to everyone else, so she told him the plain, blunt truth. "You'll need to be there for at least three months. After that, you'll probably need physical therapy for the next year, assuming all goes well."

Wilson's open eye closed for a moment as he absorbed this information. His colleague shook her head regretfully, whispering, "I'm sorry" and knowing it could mean nothing.

"Where…is therapy?" he grunted.

This was a cold, useless fact she was now glad she had memorised simply for the satisfaction of blindly reciting it. "Aspen Hills Centre."

This time, he actually looked at her, turning his head slightly and frowning slightly, the first sign of real emotion he'd shown throughout the entire interview. "That's…" he whispered once the respirator had been moved away, "…where…House's going for…rehab."

Cuddy had not known this. "Are-are you sure?" she stammered, surprised. He nodded.

"I asked Tritter…wanted to know where…he would be going…" He coughed and grimaced. "It's…a good place."

"Well…that's good," she said lamely, still taken aback by the news. House and Wilson in the same facility so soon after the event that had put a brick wall up in the middle of their friendship? It was either a chance for them to make up or an upcoming ready-made opening for a new doctor's position in Oncology and/or Diagnostics due to a death on the staff.

"Do you want to go, then?" she asked quietly. "I could arrange for you to go somewhere else if you wanted. You guys might need some time…I understand not wanting to be around House for a while, if nothing else"

Wilson's gaze wandered back to the door again, where it fixed resolutely as he pondered the offer. After a moment, he sighed and shook his head slightly. "Nearest…alternative is in Grover. Too…far."

"We'll have someone filling in here for you," Cuddy reminded him, feeling strangely helpless. "There's no need to stay…"

He shrugged, the movement nearly invisible, and she knew he was in pain. "Too far," he repeated. "Don't want…to leave."

"Okay." Taking a deep breath, Cuddy sat back, searching for what came next, and realised that she had finished with a touch of surprise. She stood suddenly and looked down at him awkwardly, feeling a swell of fear for him as she recalled her own mechanical-sounding words. _This is a risky operation…_

"You'll be fine," she said automatically, the reassurance more for her own part than his. He nodded once and closed his eyes as if suddenly very tired, so she touched his hand briefly before backing out and leaving him to the nurses waiting to take him to surgery.

Wilson had probably chosen to stay because of House, she reflected bitterly as she walked slowly back to her office, vaguely ignorant of her surroundings. She wasn't sure why he was doing it, but he was despite all the things House had done to him, all the favours he'd ignored, all the taunts that he'd slid his way, the piles of sheer abuse that House had laid on him during the course of their friendship. Was it because Wilson knew he was the only person who could make House laugh or genuinely smile? Was that even true anymore? Or had Wilson really given up on him this time, and had she just not noticed yet?

She wasn't sure what to think anymore. House wielded quite a bit of power over people and things, but the strings that were holding him up were being cut one by one. It was up to him to fix those strings or let himself fall.

'_nowhere man, please listen, you don't know what you're missing – nowhere man, the world is at your command…'_

(nowhere man  
lennon/mccartney  
rubber soul  
1965)

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_[WARNING – TYPICAL LENGTHY CHAPTER ONE A/N: So, there's the first chapter for you - hope it was fairly enjoyable. I promise a quicker update (I've been in Boston for the past few days, sorry) that's a bit more exciting next time around (more time to concentrate solely on this story, y'see!), so stay tuned and bear with me!_

_First, a word (or several!) to my lovely reviewers! Thank you all so much for reading and taking an interest – have a box o' chocolates, everyone::skips around distributing chocolate:: For those of you who haven't read anything by me before (which is likely considering this is, as I revealed previously, my first House fic), I like to end chapters by responding individually to my reviews. (Sorry, Story Alert people, I love you too, but no page space/I like reviewers better, in all honesty. xD) Yeah, yeah, there's a nifty little reply button, but guess what, I'm a positively ancient FanFictioner who has blissfully ignored most of the updates in the last year or four, so you get the nice responses at the end of each chapter. Lucky ol' you._

_Before I do that, though, a note about the lyric thing. This is my first fanfic set to music, h'actually, and so I wanted to explain a bit about how it works. I picked The Beatles because a.) they're gods and b.) my favourite, favourite band in the whole wide world and c.) their song library is extremely diverse, so I'm able to pick from a wide variety of subjects whilst staying within the same artist. Each song is picked to suit the mood of the chapter, so to speak – I mean the whole song, not just the lines I use, so you might enjoy looking up all the lyrics or, better yet, listening to the actual song, to perhaps get the whole meaning. I may even pick the song based on some random bit of trivia I happen to know about it that's not related to the actual lyrics, so I'm sure I'll have fun confusing you and getting irritated reviews along the way. Heheh. _

_My interpretations of the lyrics are my own, of course, and yours must remain yours, but many of the interpretations I use are based off of my own knowledgeable of John, Paul, George, and Ringo as people, something they've said or written, etc. besides my own feelings about the music. I am very [probably obsessively familiar with the Beatles and their music, so fear not, no abusing of their material will occur. Speaking of which, have one of those dreaded disclaimers: Most of the music used/going to be used in this story is currently owned by Michael Jackson, sadly enough, so if anyone sues me, nine times of ten it'll have to be him. If music can really belong to anybody, though, these lyrics are solely George Harrison, John Lennon, Paul McCartney, and Ringo Starr's. I will credit each song by name, writer[s, album, and year written at the end of each chapter and won't even pretend to claim any of those rather genius italicised lyrics as my own._

_So then, enough with the essential explaining junk, let's get to the part where I fawn slavishly over those who took the time to hit the Review button and send a nice little message my way! (_I promise no author's note will begin to approach this size ever again. I hope you didn't read all that. If you did, you're a dear, but please blow me off next time. I won't hate you).

_**val**__ – Too short, eh? Well, that's not a typical chapter length, I promise – hope you were able to get a better sense of things from this!_

_**EvanescentBeauty**__ - :D Glad you liked it. Thanks for reviewing!_

_**DXRULES103**__ – I'm glad the prologue pulled itself off, I wasn't quite sure about it as it's a sort of different departure from my style, so thanks for saying so! Hope you liked this chapter too!_

_**CaptiveFaRaMiRheart**__ – Pfft, complete? Yeah right, that' s not even worth thinking about. ;) Hope this chapter was still worthwhile!_

_**Betz88**__ – Trust me, this story is going to be different – I'm similarly disillusioned with most lyrically-based stories, and I'm trying to do something completely different with this. Read on, I suppose? Thanks for reviewing, and by the way, I've not reviewed it yet, but I love your Bitter Angel story: I'm a few chapters in, and it's lovely. :D  
_

_**bridit**__ – Yay Beatles:D Hope you've liked the update/choice of song!_


	3. Happiness Is A Warm Gun

**Chapter 2**

**Happiness Is A Warm Gun**

'_i need a fix 'cause i'm goin' down, back to the pits that i left uptown'_

House was convinced that he was dying.

He had dealt with pain before. He had never had to deal with anything like this. It was the feeling of being sick to his stomach, something he'd experienced before, but several times worse and with the added bonus of his leg being in more agony that he had felt since the surgery. No – the surgery hadn't been this bad. Nothing in the world had been this bad. No illness he'd ever had, no injury he'd ever received, had felt so unbelievably hellish and incredibly unfair. _Why?!_

Reason told him he was detoxing. Reason be damned.

He had gotten up an hour ago and thrown up, so he stayed on the couch, turning his face away from the TV because he was too sick to reach the remote and turn it off himself. The pillow was soon damp with sweat, but there was nothing he could do about that. Nothing much he could do about anything, really.

He wished desperately that someone else were here, if only just to put a comforting hand on his shoulder and reassure him that it would be over soon, someone to stay with him and keep him company. Stacy, Wilson...or maybe not Wilson. Wilson, he reminded himself in an effort to stay sane, was at the hospital recovering from his operation. He hadn't called in the two days after House had seen him in his room in the ICU, and when Cameron had called to see how he was doing, she hadn't mentioned him nor had he asked, because at this point he didn't give a damn about Wilson. Let Cuddy be his new best friend, for all he cared.

House closed his eyes for a moment and forced them open again as the nausea greedily swamped him in his moment of vulnerability. _Think, think, anything, what were you thinking about before…best friend._ He seized the phrase and clung to it, hunting for meaning. Best friend…one's closest companion, valued amongst all other acquaintances. Fuck Webster - your best buddy. The one who was always there during the worst part of your life. The guy who knew to show up at your doorstep when his wife left him. _No, dammit, not Wilson…_but that was, after all, who Wilson was to him. Had been. It was too confusing, so he let it go, growling at the swirl of unwanted emotions that trailed after the thoughts.

Steve McQueen had stopped running on his wheel, House realised dimly, for the slight grating sound that rose above the faint volume of the TV had vanished into thin air. With effort, he turned his head, squinting in the harsh light from the TV to the coffee table where the rat was gazing solemnly back at him, the slight, distinctive tilt to his neck that had never completely gone away making him look as if he was asking a silent question.

"Yeah, I'm fucked up," he rasped, shrugging to show Steve that it was no big deal. The rat looked unimpressed. Baring his teeth in response, House dropped his head back to his pillow, grunting as his vision blurred for a moment before grudgingly regaining focus. He wanted to sleep, but it was impossible. Everything was impossible right now.

His phone rang suddenly, the noise hammering in his ears and making him flinch, the movement sending a fresh wave of agony shooting through his leg. Cursing in anguish, House managed to roll over and made a grab for the phone, getting lucky on his first try and flipping it open as he brought it to his ear. He took a breath, steadying himself, and then managed a low greeting: "House."

"Good afternoon, Dr. House." Oh God, it was Tritter, but he didn't want to talk to that bastard no he didn't ah, why wouldn't he go to hell already- "How are you feeling?"

_Fuck you. I _hate _you._ There were better, more eloquent thoughts than that to express himself, but this was the best he could come up with. "I'm just peachy, thanks," he gritted out, trying, _trying_ to keep his voice level. He would not give Tritter the satisfaction of hearing him hurt. He would _not_.

"That's great," Tritter said smoothly, managing to actually sound happy about it. Oh, that son of a bitch. "Then, tell me, why aren't you at rehab?"

"Rehab?" House repeated foggily. He was supposed to go to rehab, he remembered, but not for a few days…days…but every hour felt like a day and so he had lost track of time. What was a day? What day was it? He wouldn't normally have lost track if someone had called him and told him. If someone had known to call him. If someone had bothered to find out. "I…oh, yeah."

"Oh, yeah," Tritter chuckled. House nearly strangled him through the phone. "You were supposed to have checked in yesterday. Guess you forgot, huh?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I fucking forgot. Oh dearie me."

Tritter ignored him – why bother responding when you have the upper hand, anyway? "I thought we agreed that you could go to rehab or go to jail."

House grunted. Tritter sighed in a crackle of static. "You blew it, House. Last chance, and you blew it. Too bad."

No – he needed that chance, rehab, not for the rehab but for staying out of fucking jail and keeping his practise. He struggled through the nausea and the pain and focused on the voice on the other end of the line, his grip tightening on the phone so his knuckles turned white. "I couldn't get a ride," he tried to explain. "No car."

"Why don't you get Dr. Wilson to give you a ride, then?"

House paused. Had no one told him? Or did he know, and was he enjoying messing with his mind because he guessed what had happened? Had Wilson…had Wilson _told_ him about finding him on Christmas Eve? Would he have done that? It would explain why Tritter was calling. His fingers were nearly crushing the phone now, the exertion making his head pound, but he was too angry too care. Tritter he could handle because Tritter was an asshole - but James? He had betrayed him once, but was he really the detective's little rat now? _I'm just trying to help you, Greg….Oh yeah, you're a fucking help, all right…_

"House?"

"I…his car's not running. All that time in your garage. He's been taking the bus in."

Tritter made a politely sceptical noise to which House did not respond – he simply waited for the verdict, his teeth gritted against the pain. After a long, long moment, the detective said finally, "Well, I suppose I can give you a ride."

House had not expected this. "You _what?_"

"I'm free now. I assume you're ready, so I can take you. It's not a problem – I've got a lunch break."

Why the hell was Tritter being so damn friendly? What else could he possibly want? He wasn't really concerned about House or any of his colleagues, that was clear – he just wanted to get the job done, no questions asked, asshole that he was with his fucking _lunch break._

"Look, House, are you still there?"

"Yeah, yeah," House snarled irritably, closing his eyes against the light of the TV. "Fine. Whatever you want."

"All right. I'll be there in fifteen minutes." _Click._

House didn't even waste a minute staring at the phone in confusion – the pain had made him develop a one-track mind, and he knew that Tritter would expect him to be ready. So, with a feeling of dread that swelled in his brain just at the idea, he slowly swung his legs over the side of the couch and sat up.

Agony, instant and unexpected in its ferocity. The torrent of pain and nausea that hit him was enough to literally force him to his knees – he was able to catch himself only because he had extended one arm as a balance, and it caught the metal rim of the coffee table and held it grimly until some of the sensation had passed. He was afraid to try to stand. Standing felt like it would kill him…but he _had_ to…

House ended up crawling to the bedroom, the pressure on his thigh only slightly less than it would have been if he had been walking. His primary concentration was not throwing up again, because he knew that he would have neither the time nor the ability to clean it up this time if he was to at least try to pack.

Help. He needed help. If he was one of his patients, he would have fucking called 911 long ago. At it was, he, in effect, was his own response to a 911 call and therefore utterly useless. What he needed was someone who would understand and help him without asking questions. Stacy wouldn't come because he was too proud to tell her about how bad it was. Cuddy would lecture him, yes, even with him lying on the ground in terrible pain at her feet, and Cameron would just flip out and lose her cool. Foreman would roll his eyes, which he couldn't stand, and Chase's eyes would widen, which was worse. Wilson…would be there, of course, quietly worried but mostly concerned and helpful and comforting. He snarled, a frustrated, high-pitched primal sound of mindless rage that came mostly from the pain. Why did he keep arriving at Wilson, goddammit?!

_Crawl. Focus._ The bedroom door was ajar, a blessing that saved him from sitting up again, and he managed to push past it without much incident. His suitcase…God…did he even have a suitcase? He couldn't remember – his brain was fuzzy, out of focus, which he at least partially remedied by sinking his teeth ruthlessly into his fist. It hurt, but it was taking the bigger pain away, he told himself.

The diagnostician found a plastic grocery bag lying halfway under his bed and nearly cried. His suitcase was in his locked closet, a lifetime away on the other side of the room: he would have to use this. A stupid shitty piece of plastic that some bastard had probably wiped his ass with before putting his fucking vegetables in it. God, you're screwed, Greg.

Slowly, he dragged himself around the room opening up bottom drawers. It was all he could reach, the first one or two drawers in his dresser and nightstand which contained pants and pyjamas. Shirts. He needed shirts, he realised dimly. He had his cane leaning against his bed – he grabbed it and used it to open the top door before heaving himself up on it in one forced motion.

His head spun, his stomach spiralling out of control and his leg melting. Oh, _God_, there had never been anything this bad…and then his head dropped to the top of the dresser and he was screaming, God, trying not to but unable to suppress it, because it hurt, yes, it hurt more than anything he had ever, ever felt put together. It was murderous. It was inhuman. _Makeitstopmakeitstopohgodohgodohgodstopppppp…_

He wasn't sure why he was still standing when the black daggers began to recede from his vision, but he was, somehow, still leaning against the dresser and clinging to the handle of his cane, the tears running down his face as he sobbed helplessly, weakly, desperately. _All this for a few pills…_

_I'm worried about you._

_God, Wilson, I'm sorry, you were right, come back_, please_…_

Don't – _think_ – like – that. About _him. _He's _wrong._ He's a _traitor. _Shirts. Shirts. All that pain had been for a few fucking T-shirts and a hoodie. Grab them. Drop them to the floor. Get back on your hands and knees and put them in the bag. That's fine. Get your cane. Crawl to the door. Yes, _crawl_, you son of a bitch, and wait there for that cruel, cruel bastard to show up and make you all better.

_i need a fix 'cause i'm goin' down_

Tritter knocked. House had been expecting this, sort of, and so he reached up and opened the door a fraction, looking up in the abominable brightness to the detective's smug face. "Watch out," he grunted in a sort-of-controlled voice, nodding to his leg, which was stretched out behind the door.

"You ready?"

"You're late." Had to get up again. Had to _walk._ Had to walk without Tritter seeing how much pain he was in, how much he wanted to drop to the sidewalk and puke. Let it be over soon. Only sarcasm helped a little bit.

The detective shrugged, grabbed him by the arm, and pulled him upright – House had to bite his tongue until it bled to stop from crying out. _You sick, sick bastard, I hate you, I _hate _you…_. He planted his cane firmly and took a cautious, shuffling step, trying desperately to keep up with Tritter's normal gait as he tottered down the steps and headed down the sidewalk with his plastic bag tucked under one arm, his eyes watering in the sunlight and his head throbbing. The world must hate him.

Once on the road in Tritter's expensive Porsche, very little talking went on: it seemed that even Tritter had the sense not to try and bait him right now, and he found that he was grudgingly grateful for it. Once they reached the highway, though, the detective switched on the radio, dialling it down to the local country station.

With difficulty, House turned his head and stared incredulously at the other man for a moment. Tritter's eyes narrowed slightly as he looked back, his spine stiffening slightly at House's obvious hostility. After a moment, he growled, "What?"

House stared at him a moment longer just to make him uncomfortable before shaking his head and muttering, "You would." Tritter chose not to dignify this with a response.

The combination of the country and the bright light beating down on the car through the windshield quickly sent House's headache from migraine to head-between-your-knees brain-splitter, and he began watching swerving cars and speeding semis more hopefully than usual, wishing that one of them would suddenly lose their brakes and flatten Tritter's goddamn Porsche. With any luck, it'd take its owner with it in a rather painful way and kill its passenger instantly – House was too fed up with pain to a slow death.

He was unable to read the number of the exit they got off at, so distracting was the pain, and by the time Tritter had stopped the car and was waiting for him to get out, he was more disoriented than he'd ever been on that bad high school pot he'd used to smoke by the joint. As Tritter took his elbow and led him to the door, he looked around blearily, leaning heavily on his cane to try and stay upright as he vaguely took in a green lawn and the flash of an American flag rolling lazily in the breeze before they were inside.

"Detective Matthew Tritter. Yes, this is Gregory House."

Was he talking to a receptionist? House could barely see anymore. "Dr. House," he muttered, not wanting to be shown up either way.

He heard the detective sigh close beside him. "_Dr._ Gregory House, yes. I'm his narcotics officer."

_Couldn't have saved me a bit of grace and said we were cousins or something, I suppose…_

Did Tritter have relatives? Did he have a wife and kids, God forbid? How could they stand to stay with him while he broke up friendships, stole jobs and possessions, and made lives miserable? _Or maybe he's just as lonely as me._ Funny – ironic – how irony could occur to him at a time like this.

"Room 602. I'll show you the way." A new voice, female, superficial yet considerably more well-meaning. "I see you're in for a long stay, Dr. House."

"We'll see."

"Enjoy yourself, House." Tritter, close to his right shoulder, malicious and gleeful at his success. It was downright disgusting – nauseating, even.

Thus, House saw no other option but to make himself feel better – that was what Tritter wanted, wasn't it? – and leaned over to deposit the remainder of his lunch on Tritter's shoes. Vengeance tasted of sour bologna, but there was a certain quality to it that took the pain away, if only for a moment.

_happiness is a warm gun  
bang bang, shoot shoot_

'_happiness is a warm gun'  
lennon/mccartney  
the beatles ('the white album')  
1969  
_

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_  
A/N: So yeah, rather painful chapter over…! (Ouch…the things I do to my poor, suffering characters…) Thanks for all the happy reviews, people, and keep 'em coming – I'd like to see how I'm doing. :D_

_**BlkDiamond**__ – Heh, I don't think House is going to figure anything out for a while – he's rather out of it. And don't worry, I've got a nice chapter on the ducklings coming up next just for you! It'll be up sooner rather than later, I promise!_

_**Reinnos Fireclaw Nemaste**__ – Hey kiddo, how ya doing? Long time no see! How're things? Thanks so much for reviewing, and Beatles for the win, of course. :D Read on…_

_**Living in a fantasy**__ – Aww, feel better soon – I'm not sure if this chapter is beneficial or harmful to getting you better…! Hope you enjoyed it either way, and thanks for reviewing._

_**EvanescentBeauty**__ – I know, I'm abusive. __ Sorry. But glad you liked that chapter!_

_Cheers, all! Next chapter coming up soon!_


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